Shadow Hunters (16 page)

Regardless, she knew that several long hours had passed. She hoped she was getting close to the damned thing.

Jake tried not to worry about Rosemary, and failed utterly. He told himself that she was about a thousand times tougher than he was, and was more than able to handle herself in any situation she might encounter. She was also smart, and not likely to get herself into trouble. The word “trouble” reminded him of Ethan Stewart, who used to call her that, and he thought of what he’d last seen of Ethan, and told himself that Rosemary could defend herself very well, thank you very much, even if she did startle some of these Forged protoss.

“If she’s found out—do you think they’ll kill her?” he asked Ladranix as they returned to the city.

Ladranix hesitated, and Jake’s heart sank. “I do not know,” he said, and Jake knew he spoke the truth. “We would not, but we are not the Forged. Protoss do not kill protoss.” Unspoken were the words,
But pro-toss might kill Rosemary.

He couldn’t help it. He had to know. He took out the walkie-talkie and thumbed it. It would make no sound or light that might put Rosemary in danger; instead it would vibrate to let her know they were trying to get in touch with her. If it was safe, she’d reply.

There was no response.

Jacob—you must not make an assumption. Any number of things could be happening at this moment with Rosemary. She could not be in a safe place to respond, true. Or the device could have malfunctioned. Or perhaps there is interference from the technology below the surface. Any or these could be the reason she is not responding.

I know,
he said, and ran a hand through his hair. The worry was making his headache return.
But … I’m going to worry about her until she gets back. That’s just how humans are, Zamara.

So I am observing. I knew that I would have many experiences as a preserver. I never expected dwelling inside an alien body and mind to be among them.

Some ride, huh?

Her mental voice was hauntingly tender.
It has been …“some ride,” as you put it, yes.

I wish I could stop worrying about her. I wish—I wish I could stop caring about her.

I cannot change these things, Jacob, nor would I attempt to even if I could. I have demanded and taken enough from you. I would not take that also.

A sudden thought struck him. He’d wondered this before, but hadn’t let himself follow that line of thinking. Now, he did.
Preservers have all the thoughts and feelings and memories of all protoss, right?

Correct.

And since I’m now a preserver—as much as a human can be—all my thoughts and feelings and memories…. oh boy.

They will be added to the whole. Future generations will remember all of this.

Jake turned a bright shade of red, and it wasn’t from the sunburn.

You should not be unduly distressed. Future preservers will not probe for such base and common things as sexual desire or petty jealousies.

Oh thank you, that makes me feel so much better.

If it is any comfort, Jacob, what you will likely be preserved for are your moments of greatness and insight and heroism.

That did make him feel a little bit better.

Since I cannot alleviate your worry, perhaps I can distract you. You need to know what happened with Adun, and the renegade protoss who eventually became known as the dark templar.

Zamara was right; it would do no good to worry. There was no way of knowing what was going on with Rosemary until he saw her again. It wouldn’t be that long, he told himself. And in the meantime, he would find out more about the protoss and their history, and that was always a worthwhile thing.

The girl, shackled as if she were as dangerous as a trained templar fully equipped for battle, was brought before the high templar. A second meeting with her did nothing to convince Jake that the Conclave was correct in its desire to have her executed. This time, he shared thoughts with her, questioned her, and listened, as did the other templar. The unease grew inside him. Adun watched and observed the other templar
as they, too, interrogated the girl—Raszagal was her name. Finally, she was led away, head still high.

Adun spoke to his fellow templar. “Always, we templar have obeyed the will of the Conclave, for always, they have done what is right and just to protect us all. It is they who keep pure the tenets of the Khala, which has been and continues to be our salvation.”

Jake said nothing, observing the other templar, listening quietly to their thoughts. They, too, wondered where this was leading.

“They have found heretics, like Raszagal. They have asked us to hunt down the others, and execute them quietly, so that their very existence remains a secret. They fear that if word spread that there were those who rejected the Khala, it would lead to panic. And that panic might hurtle us back to another Aeon of Strife.”

Everyone in the room reacted with instinctive dread. Adun continued. “They are right not to want to replay those dreadful times. They are right to want all to be in the Khala.”

And then he hesitated. “But …protoss do not kill protoss. And if we go down this path … perhaps this is what will eventually lead to another Aeon of Strife. You have spoken with Raszagal. We will find others, and we will speak with them too before we summarily execute them. In my heart … Raszagal is not a threat. I have questioned her—extensively. Nothing in her desires revolution, or disharmony. She merely wishes to keep herself to herself. Is that worthy of death?”

No one answered. Jake felt their indecision tear at him; felt his own indecision heavy in his soul. He liked Raszagal. He admired her. And Adun was right. She was no threat.

“She is only one,” Jake said slowly. “She may not think like the others.”

“What my old friend Vetraas says is true,” Adun replied. “And thus we must know more before we obey the Conclave. Or … before we do not.”

Startlement rippled through the assembled templar. “You would disobey a direct order from the Conclave?”

“I have always obeyed,” Adun said, and such was true. “Because always, they have acted with wisdom. But they are not Khas. They want to protect us, but they are also fearful of what Raszagal represents. I am a warrior, and proud to fight for my people.
All
of my people,” he said. “Perhaps you too now deem me a heretic. Who here, then, wishes the honor of slaying young Raszagal?”

No one replied. No one wanted to be the first to walk down a path from which there was no turning back—slaying the blood of one of his own people for the first time since Khas brought the Khala to them and ended the slaughter.

Adun nodded, slowly. “We will learn more.”

Jake had expected that the heretics would come largely from one or two tribes, but he was wrong. According to the information given to them by the Conclave, members from several different tribes had quietly simply refused to join the Khala. And while the Khala was constant, one’s involvement in it did not need to be, and indeed, it would be difficult to live every moment in such a state of unity with others. But Jake and Adun went to be nourished by the rich contact many times each day and emerged refreshed and invigorated by this sacred, special immersion. So did the other templar, and the judicators, and many of the khalai.

It would be easy to locate someone in the Khala. But how to find one who never came to this place for nourishment was the problem. The Conclave had a list, however, and quietly, with no fanfare, templar found and took prisoner those on the list. Each one they interviewed unsettled Jake, Adun, and the other templar further. For like Raszagal, they were calm and reasoned, and their arguments … had merit.

But which course of action represented following the Khala—refraining from killing protoss whose hearts held no true threat, or exterminating those who did not wish to merge so deeply with others?

Jake was glad the responsibility was Adun’s, not his. And after several days, Adun called them together.

“I have reached a decision,” he said quietly. He looked at each of them in turn. “I will spare the prisoners.”

A flicker of relief ran through those assembled, along with concern. Jake voiced what they were all thinking.

“It is well that their blood is not on our hands, Executor. But I was there when you were given your orders. The Conclave believes it is right on this issue. They will insist on the deaths of these … these ‘dark templar.’”

Adun had been looking at his hands. Now he lifted his glowing eyes to his old friend. “I have … an idea.”

Rosemary decided it was time to risk contacting Jake and the others. She was feeling pretty confident that she wouldn’t run across any Tal’darim here. The place was enormous, Jake had told her. It was a veritable underground city, and it was fairly obvious that all the protoss were clustered in one spot. If this had
been a forbidden area until recently, they were probably too frightened to do much exploring. She took out the walkie-talkie and thumbed it.

“Yo, Professor,” she said quietly.

There was no response. She frowned and checked it. It was definitely working, but something was preventing the signal from getting through. It figured. She sighed, replaced it in her small pack, and continued on.

The heartbeat sound increased. After all this walking, she was finally getting close. She hurried forward, then broke into a quick trot, realizing that she was excited to see this thing of which Jake had spoken so raptly and a little annoyed at herself for being so excited. Through several more corridors, each marked by Temlaa’s ancient symbol. It was there, right there, and—

They sprang up before her like living shadows, and as she skidded to a halt and drew out her rifle, she realized that she was surrounded.

The psionic attack stabbed her like an ice pick driven through her brain, and Rosemary collapsed. She didn’t have time to fire even a single shot.

ROSEMARY AWOKE AND FOR A LONG, LONG moment thought she was still deep in the nightmare. The nightmare of searing pain, of a hunger that refused to be sated, of being helpless before both other people and her own cravings. Then she realized that the pain of a body twisted too long in an unnatural position and the itch of blood drying on her wrists and ankles were indeed very real.

“Shit,” she said, and drowned out the rising fear with irritation at herself for getting into this predicament.

She was lying on the cold stone floor. Her wrists were bound behind her back with some kind of cord. Cautious, exploratory movement revealed that her legs, bent behind her, were also bound, and something attached ankles to wrists, so she was effectively well trussed up. That she’d been in this position for some time was evidenced by the screaming pain of her muscles. She was no longer where she had been attacked; they’d taken her somewhere else, some dimly lit niche somewhere in this vast underground city. Rosemary lifted her head to look around. Were her captors here or had she been left alone?

“So, you are awake,” came a voice in her mind. “Good. I was worried that Alzadar here might have permanently damaged you.”

One question answered, then: Her captors, the templar-turned-Forged Alzadar among them, were most definitely present.

“Well, wouldn’t want that, would we?” she shot back cheerfully. There was no point in plotting an escape when you were surrounded by people who could read your mind. The block Zamara had erected had prevented the Tal’darim from detecting her; it would be of no protection if she was stupid enough to literally stumble across them. And besides, it had worn off by this point, as Zamara had said it would, which meant they probably knew everything she knew now. She tried not to think about it and couldn’t, just, she realized, like the old, tired saw that if someone said “Don’t think about a purple elephant,” all you saw in your mind’s eye was a lavender pachyderm. Instantly, of course, she
did
think about a purple elephant, and she got a brief and satisfying jolt of pleasure at the confusion the image presented to her captors.

“Only temporarily damaged, I can deal with,” she continued. “You didn’t kill me outright, so that means you want something.”

Long, cool hands closed on her body and she was positioned so she could see. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, from giving them the satisfaction of knowing how it hurt her, and then thought,
That was stupid,
because of course they could read her mind. God, she was really starting to get pissed off at this whole mind-reading business. She clung to the anger.

She looked around at the protoss. Most of them hung back, but two stood gazing down at her. Overall they looked pretty much like the Shel’na Kryhas. There was certainly no immediate visible difference between the two factions. They were various colors, ranging from purple to gray to blue, and they had a variety of ridges and shapes to their faces. No doubt to each other they looked completely different, just as human faces looked individualistic to other humans. But to Rosemary Dahl, they all looked like … protoss.

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to think. The eyes of the protoss who was most likely their leader—Felanis, she recalled—narrowed and darkened, and he hunched slightly. The other, whom Rosemary assumed was Alzadar, stayed almost frighteningly calm as he stared at her with unblinking eyes.

“We are completely different from the Shel’na Kryhas!” Felanis cried. “They are unenlightened fools, clinging stubbornly to the flawed past, the very past that led us to disaster. We were deserted once before, long, long ago, by the beings we loved and trusted. But this desertion is far worse. This was abandonment by our own people!”

More thoughts bombarded Rosemary. But she did not feel their emotions; perhaps they kept them rigidly in check. She was glad of it. Their thoughts alone were hard enough for her mind to handle.